Halo Murder Mystery Mansion
by Arcane Illusion
Summary: This is a story of multiple Halo characters trapped in a mansion controlled by two maniacal dictators. The characters are being killed off one by one, but no one knows who the killer is. R&R. Thanks to Gusgdog fo co-writing.
1. Prologue

It should be made apparent that I do not own Halo or any of it's characters.

Prologue

There was a loud hissing noise as the bulletproof glass casing unattached itself from the remainder of the metallic device. The cryotube swung open and a man in full body armor stepped out. A normally calm man, the Master Chief pulled out the Magnum strapped to his waist and pressed himself against the nearest wall.

There was a soft clicking as the footsteps coming down the hallway became louder.

John readied himself as a dark shape entered the unlit room. The intruder's head swiveled around the room to look directly at the spot where the spartan had been a few moments before. Suddenly, the elite that had walked in felt an iron bar tighten around his throat. The small muzzle of a hand firearm pressed into the small of his spine.

"Don't move."

The Chief threw the other figure against the wall, spun him around, and pointed the gun straight at one of the beady, yellow, and cat-like eyes. The elite put his hands up and began to speak, but the spartan had already dropped the weapon.

The Arbiter held out his hand, and John shook it roughly. They both knew that their alliance was still intact. The next fourteen hours were spent exploring the vast labyrinth they had been trapped in.

There was night.

There was rest.

There was morning.

End of Prologue.


	2. Tartar Sauce is coming to town

The Master Chief and the Arbiter walked down a long bland looking hallway together. The walls were a hospital white that matched the ceiling and tiled floors. The Arbiter turned his elongated head, "Do you think we are alone, Chief?"

The spartan stopped walking. Staring straight ahead he said, "No, Arbiter, we are never truly alone. Man has asked that question for thousands of years, and we were wrong until we discovered the Covenant. So no, I don't believe we are really alone in the universe."

"No, you foolish devil-spawn, I meant – 'Are we alone in this mansion?' - Being so insolent in my society has taught me the difference of intelligence levels between our races. The difference between your brightest and our most foolish is surprisingly large."

"Was that supposed to insult me? Because, if it was, I missed the insulting part" - The Arbiter sighed and continued walking. Finally, the Chief responded. "I don't think so, my instincts are screaming at me to be ready, and I'm not exactly sure why."

At this amusingly ironic point in time, Tartarus, a large, unsightly creature (A brute to be exact) ran around the nearest corner screaming some unintelligent and primitive war-cry from his other-worldly vocal cords. The hair-covered mass in dangerous need of a dental plan turned and attempted to run over the Chief like an 18-wheeler splattering a puppy dog on the highway.

Chief, without even a twitch, pulled the sawed-off 12 gauge off of his back, aimed to remove the major part of the creatures rather small and slowly working brain, and pulled the trigger. The projectile that ejected from the weapon at thrice terminal velocity impacted with the monster's cranium with a sickening splatter. The brute was temporarily disoriented, but was not nearly as confused as the spartan, who was staring at his mortal enemy, covered in chocolate pudding.

Chief turned to the Arbiter, who held up a magnum, "This one's vanilla."

Tartarus started to laugh maniacally. The sound resembled a block of ice being cut in half by a table saw. Realizing that the normally dangerous end of his weapon was useless, the spartan flipped his gun around. The bloody mess that resulted from Tartarus meeting the handle end of the 15 pound shotgun shall not be described due to the graphic nature of beatdowns, curb-stomping, and tea-bagging; all of which were committed here. However, it shall be noted that the normally evergreen colored Chief, was sporting a more Christmas-like appearance that afternoon.

There was night.

There was rest.

There was morning.

End of Chapter 1.


	3. Regretting the Truth

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The Chief and Arbiter walked down another perpetually boring hallway. Being kept in tow via the means of a leather dog leash and collar was the mentally dysfunctional brute, Tartarus. The furball was still unconscious, and he left a trail of blood and pudding on the ground as he was dragged along the tile floor.

"Who else could be in here, Demon?" inquired the squid-like alien.

"Well, besides the three of us, it's possible that there are quite a few others. Based on the regional scans and probabilities that I ran, there could be anywhere from fifteen others to none," explained John.

"That could be dangerous, but so far we've had previous contact with everyone else in here…" said the Arbiter as he began to mumble to himself. The Spartan didn't reply, he knew better than to interrupt an Elite in thought.

At that moment, footsteps echoed from around the corner that the small group had just passed.

"This way!" shouted a voice.

The Arbiter and Chief ducked around another nearby corner, paused, and threw Tartarus out into the hallway as a test dummy.

The harsh movement awoke the hygiene-lacking mongrel, who stood, fell over, stood again, attempted to scream something unintelligent in his guttural voice, and coughed up a 3-inch wide hairball.

At that point, Sergeant Avery Johnson, followed closely by a surprisingly swiftly moving prophet, rounded the corner.

The arbiter, seeing the prophet that he had killed less than 36 hours ago, became slightly surprised and a wee bit temperamental. Pulling out the four-foot long rocket launcher, he quickly aimed and fired.

"Where did you…?" the Chief began to ask, but his voice was drowned out by the explosion of the firing weapon. Unfortunately, due to the poorly programmed artificial intelligence located in the armor of our explosive wielding friend, the projectile that had ejected itself from the launcher missed the prophet completely.

Instead, it hit Johnson in the head.

To everyone's surprise, human brains and skull fragments did not plaster the walls. Johnson fell over, knocked unconscious by the soup can that ricocheted off of his cranium. Unfortunately, the thickness of the sergeant's head was enough to crush a corner of the can. The prophet of Truth was promptly covered with cream of mushroom.

The brute's improperly functioning brain attempted to activate when it heard the prophet's screams claiming death from the smell alone. Needless to say, he failed. Not having any reason or logic running through his thick skull, the brute simply attacked the problem the best way he knew how: Putting his head down, screaming, and running quickly towards whatever problem may have occurred.

Note: Brutes have been known to use this tactic on anything ranging from Kleenex boxes to nuclear explosives.

The mass of hair slammed into the prophet, only adding to the pungent smell. He did succeed, however, in knocking the prophet off of his chair. The brute, having nowhere else to go, took his place.

Watching this unfortunate event occur, the Chief and Arbiter followed the marine sergeant's example and hit the deck. This, apparently, was an intelligent strategy, as the brute began to whiz around the hallway atop his new, floating toy.

Unfortunately, wise as he was, the prophet did not comprehend the use of the afore mentioned strategy, and failing to employ it, was used to crater a hole through the nearest drywall structure.

Another soup can was all it took to remove the ape-like beast from his "toy".

After removing the prophet from the wall, waking up Johnson, and re-collaring Tartar sauce, the group of five continued their exploration of the mysterious mansion.

There was night.

There was rest.

There was morning.

End of Chapter 2.


	4. Plasma Grenades and Apple Sauce

Tartarus, expressing his dog-like nature, attempted to run in front of the rest of the group, which included Sergeant Johnson, Master Chief, the Arbiter, and Truth. Flinging pungent saliva across the walls, the sasquatch ran down yet another hallway, with the spartan in tow. The spartan was amused and frustrated by the fact that digging his heels three inches into the ground was not enough to stop the hairy mongrel.

The Arbiter then raised his voice, "Don't you think that a leather leash might not be strong enou-" the Arbiter did not finish his phrase due to the large snapping noise that penetrated the air.

Tartar sauce tripped over himself from the speed at which he was freed. He ran around the nearest corner to escape from the group that had restrained him in the first place.

"I am overjoyed at the thought that we no longer must associate ourselves with that animal," spoke Truth.

Much to the prophet's dismay, the brute quickly ran back around the corner, a glowing blue orb attached to his skull.

"GRENADE!" screamed multiple voices as everyone except the non-able bodied prophet hit the floor.

The resulting explosion shook the entire mansion.

The first to drag himself off of the ground was Johnson. He shook himself, as he was covered in water. The plasma grenade, instead of exploding in a burst of heated plasma, had activated itself in a manner much more similar to a large water balloon.

The Chief and Arbiter were unharmed, the prophet had, once again, fallen out of his chair, and Tartarus, unsurprisingly, smelled like wet dog.

Immediately following this strange occurrence, a small, chimpanzee-like creature ran around the corner. It was missing an arm, but the methane-breathing grunt made up for it with its' store of grenades, one of which it was currently holding in its' good hand. The small monster was screaming "COME BACK HORSEY!" as it proceeded to chase after, jump upon, and insert the live grenade into the ear of Tartarus.

This particular grenade expelled apple sauce, which brutes happen to be highly allergic to.

Tartarus screamed like a six-year-old schoolgirl falling off the monkey bars. He then collapsed into a hairy lump.

The prophet, who had climbed back onto his chair, floated over to the brute and placed his wiry, wrinkly fingers on the mongrel's kneecap. "The beast lacks a pulse!" he exclaimed. "The great journey has taken him along its' divine path!"

"Not if I can help it!" shrieked Johnson. Suddenly wearing horn-rimmed glasses, he pulled an epi-pen from the pocket protector on his military uniform and repeatedly stabbed his new furry friend with it in the kneecap.

After a few moments the brute began to breathe again. Afterwards, the grunt introduced himself as Yaynap.

John looked at the brute after he had recovered, "The kneecap?"

There was night.

There was rest.

There was morning.

End of Chapter 3.


	5. Too Much Information

After their incident with the escaping slobber beast, John had been assigned to the front of the pack. The ever so lost, confused, and generally unintelligent party, ventured onward, well, unintelligently.

The grunt, Yaynap, after showing his lack of an IQ higher than a rotting log, numerous times over, was being dragged along the ground, by the toe, by the seven foot tall elite.

Tartarus, on the other hand, was not so lucky. The pungently odored dog was being ridden like a pony on a merry-go-round by Sergeant Johnson.

The prophet resembled a senile, old man that had been jacked up on too much morphine as he napped on his floating chair, towed behind Tartar Sauce. Frankly, he looked like a wrinkly, shriveled worm. Or possibly one of those plastic grocery bags that had been crumpled up too many times. Or a senile, old man. Take your pick.

As a blob of saliva flung itself onto the chief's visor, he scraped it off with an angry sigh. The arbiter slapped the beast for his rudeness. Tartarus fell onto the ground and began twitching uncontrollably. Everyone kicked him a few times, but the mongrel refused to cease his spasms. They continued to kick him.

The Master Chief turned apathetically to the Arbiter. "So really – why the kneecap?"

"The kneecap is akin to the spinal cord of your kind, it allows data transfer to the most necessary areas of its anatomy: the legs that they use for their mindless, rage-induced stampedes.

"But that doesn't make any sense. Wouldn't the brute need its spinal cord for information transfer anyway?"

"This is the part that causes shock for many other races. Are you ready?"

"Not at all, please continue."

"The brute uses its spinal cord mainly for support, as its brain is actually located in the interior of the anal tract."

".............."

"Yes, quite brutish, wouldn't you agree?"

"...that explains so much more than I needed to know..."

2 HOURS LATER

"I HATE YOU, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!!!!!!!" Screamed the spartan as he lunged for the elite. Catching the alien by surprise, the chief proceeded to punch the Arbiter until he was out cold. Failing to notice the signs of unconsciousness, John continued beating on the nearly lifeless form as everyone else watched, jaws all open in shock.

"I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT, BUT I DON'T WANT TO!!! I BLAME YOU FOR THIS!!!!!!!" The slightly infuriated, armor-clad spartan then flung himself at the brute. "AND I BLAME YOU FOR HAVING BEEN BORN WITH YOUR BRAIN UP YOUR ANUS!!!!"

"I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!!!!!!!" Screamed John as he sprinted down the hallway, nearly running into two previously unknown figures.

"Hello," They spoke in unison.

There was Night.

There was Rest.

There Was Morning.

End of Chapter 4.


End file.
